


Special

by Knit1298



Series: Adam was special [2]
Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-09-20 07:28:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17018349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knit1298/pseuds/Knit1298
Summary: Playing through HR and MD various times and the resulting head canon, my Adam always ends up being on the pacifist side. Quiet and close to the chest, not sharing much about himself.Sort of really really introvert and not that able to open up to people easily, trust issues with all what happened of course too.But where does it come from? Was Adam always like that, or did the events change him.What does it do to a child to grow up in a laboratory for the first five(?) years of its life?We know from Michelle there was pain and children crying, them dying from what was done. Even if Adam did not.The staff can't have allowed themselves to care too much, to get attached or there would have been people to put a stop at the experiments much earlier. What does that distance do to a child? To its social behavior, which foundation is learned in those early years after all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning ahead, not being a native English speaker, mistakes and errors are inevitable. Feel free to point them out, for me to learn better and correct them. (Learned British English in school, so what's where the different spelling comes from)  
> Also I'm in no way learned in psychological matters, so except for maybe borrowing themes from stories or films, documentaries and such, this is made up in my head.

He wasn't good with people. Had great difficulties to understand them.

 _Reading_ the signs never had been the problem.

Seeing the various details, like the crinkle around the eyes, the slight movements of the eyebrows, the forehead. The nose crunching, the lips, the corners of the mouth moving up or down. The hands and feet. The shoulders or how the chest was held.

He never had difficulties with seeing those, but with _deciphering_ their meaning.

To understand their contradictions, when the mouth told this, but the eyes and brows that. It was like a different language and him not knowing the whole vocabulary. He saw the crinkle, the up lifted corners of the mouth, but was it a real smile though or a fake one? Amusement, friendliness, mock or had he in truth offended someone? Too often he was at a loss, to tell what's what.

His parents, he had always understood. They explained themselves, if he was uncertain of their meaning. They usually made sure to send clear signals. The kids at school, he had the feeling it became more and more difficult, that their signals were getting more- distorted, than they had been in the beginning.

Except for Tom. He was different. With him there hadn't been any need of explanations, no misreadings, no failures. They just understood each other. Tom had said once, it was like everyone was speaking ' _Human_ ' when Adam was speaking ' _Adam_ '. That he somehow was able to speak ' _Adam_ ' too.

They had become friends. Tom's friend Tanya too, a bit at least. Tom really did like her a lot, he did too, though not as much. But he didn't mind it when she hugged him, took his hand. With her, it somehow didn't make his skin crawl. He liked that she didn't look at him with-, mum had called it _judgement_. That her smile didn't change when it was directed at him. The eyes smiling too, like the book said was important there, the one Tom had given him for his birthday.That she tried to learn some ' _Adam_ ' with the help of Tom.

Tanya had given him a book too, about stars. She had remembered him telling, he liked watching the sky at night. Then they had made a really big mess of the chocolate cake mum had baked. That had been last week and now he was hoping for a cloudless night ever since, to watch the stars with his two friends. He still wasn't exactly sure what having friends really meant, but he was happy to have them.

_Friends_

 

“Adam, my dear?”

“Yes? I'm outside the window, on the roof.”

“My little starlight, you need to pack your bag, your father has a new job, we need to move again. Dad is already packing the car.”

“But Tom, and Tanya, I need to say them goodbye. They are my friends.“

“That they are, I know my dear. But I'm sorry there isn't enough time. We are leaving tonight and it is too late to visit them. They probably are asleep and their parents won't be happy for us to wake them.”

He looked at his mother. This wasn't the first time they had to move all of a sudden. To move to a new town, for a new job. But it was the first time he had friends to leave behind. Friends he had given a promise. He watched his mum silently. He had started to read Tom's book, it helped him to better decide on the meaning of all those little signs.

 _Sadness_ , she often was like that, when they had to move.

 _Sympathy_ , or _pity_ ? For him? For leaving Tom and Tanya? For not saying goodbye?

But there also was something else, underneath. She tried to hide it from him. _Fear_. He didn't want her to be afraid.

Quietly Adam nodded and went to pack his bag, his two new books first of all things. ' _Stars and comets_ ' and ' _The compendium of verbal and non verbal communication_ '. He didn't really own much else anyway. Everything, including his clothes, still fit comfortably in a medium sized sports bag, with even space left.

He would write them. Mum and dad usually didn't want him to keep contact and he hadn't ever wanted before. But they were his friends, he had promised Tom. Dad would understand, he always said promises are made to be kept, not broken. Therefore you should be careful of what you were going to promise.

 

 

 

It was his 13th birthday, he was grabbing the mail from the box outside. Tanya would come by soon, for them then riding to the lake, to enjoy the hot summer day. A postcard slipped out of the package of letters and leaflets. No sender, no text, just his address printed on it. The picture side showing the nightly skyline of a city.

Detroit. It was always Detroit. For years now. It made Tom smile.

Adam and his parents had been gone overnight. Disappeared, just like that, only a week after they had celebrated his friend's ninth birthday. He had missed him and had been drawn back to their house, to his friend's room, to the spot on the roof they occasionally had watched the stars from.

At some point his parents forbade him to go, told him to get over it. That there were other, _better_ friends than the weird little Jensen boy, they never liked from the start. It only made him slip out in secret, at night. Others weren't Adam. Missing his friend even more, when he sat on the roof outside the room. Watching the stars, imagining Adam was watching them too, from where ever he was.

 

One night there had been people, when he had approached the house after nightfall. Men in dark suits, with dark cars. Taking apart what little the Jensens had left behind. Searching for something.

Tom wasn't stupid, he knew that meant Adam wouldn't come back. It had made him really sad.

Then there had been the first postcard. The skyline of Detroit. A reminder of their promise.

He still had missed Adam, but they would meet again, when they were nineteen. Most of the boys back then had wanted to be a policeman or firefighter, when they were grown up. Most would forget that, getting older. They would not. They had done some research and decided to go first to the college at Phoenix, then Detroit. They had looked up what they had to learn and to know for joining the police. They had promised each other to be there when they had turned 19.

There was a postcard on his birthday each year and one for Christmas, one for Tanya's birthday too. Six years left, Adam!

 

 

 

They had had some lessons about body language in school recently. The teacher had praised him for seeing all the little details. He still wondered why she hadn't noticed how desperate he was trying to decipher people's behaviour and how he constantly failed at it.

Wanting to stop those irritated frowns, when he got it all wrong again, when he reacted the wrong way. When he wasn't able to meet the ever changing expectations and offended without even knowing until it was too late.

Tom always had understood there was just no sense in circling around with too many words, when a few direct ones were sufficient to tell what you meant, plain and clear. That it was stupid to fill silence with empty words.

Most other people didn't like that though.

They said he was hostile, aggressive or rude, when he said something.

Arrogant, disinterested and cold, when he didn't.

Why did the saying go 'silence is golden', when most people couldn't stand someone being quiet?

Why were children taught not to lie, when people were offended if he was just being honest?

It was so exhausting to watch out for all these little signs, to weigh them, to decipher their meaning. Others easily seemed to have learned that. His classmates too were becoming more and more difficult to understand for him, the more they all aged.

With too many people around it was even worse. Not to overlook something, to keep track of everyone.

He better liked to just listen. Voices were fascinating. The way you could change the meaning with altering the heights and depths or the volume. That was far easier to understand.

But unfortunately in combination with the other signs, it became difficult again.

The face contradicting the voice, hands contradicting the face.

What was more important then?

Which held the true meaning he should react to?

The eyes were important Mum often said.

He didn't think so, the forehead and the mouth were way more complicated. The hands more helpful to find out intentions.

But Mum and Dad's eyes always got brighter, when they were in the same room. Like someone switching on a small light. So maybe there was something to the eyes too, something he hadn't learned yet.

He wished he could ask Tom, his friend always had been able to translate, what he didn't get by himself.

Maybe he could tell him about those nightmares he had from time to time, too. What he thought of them. Of white rooms, pain, needles and fire. Mum had said he shouldn't watch those series any longer, if they caused him bad dreams, but they never had had any white rooms in them and only rarely were about fires.

Her eyes had had that weird shadow in them there. As if she was sad and afraid. He had decided to never mention the dreams again.

Five years, fours month and thirteen days until they would meet again, he was keeping count.

Tomorrow they were going to move to another town again, everything was packed already. His stuff still fit into that one bag, the two books, always being the first things to pack, were a bit worn by now.

Another new school with too many new people looking at him weirdly. But their curiosity never lasted long, before the looks changed into something else, something he was used to by now, for the most part. Dad had promised to find him a new martial arts club. Hopefully there was one, it was something he was good at even if he didn't like to hurt others. But doing the grips and throws correctly you didn't hurt your opponent that much. And like Dad said once, starting to teach him a little bit about self defence, a bruise isn't the end of the world and is a reminder to do better next time.


	2. Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is it like to suddenly have a little boy with you, that doesn't know 'normal'? That is hunted. That you promised to keep safe.

A picture of a little boy gazing at the nightly sky.

_Moved further. No indication anyone was on our track, but better safe than sorry. Little A is fascinated with stars. I have to make sure he does go to bed and stays there instead of looking into the sky all night._

_Had thought the top floor room would best for him then. Big and with lot's of light. But he shut down. Completely. Curled into himself until Big A got what was the issue. He is now back in the small room near the stairs, it's rather dark but he clearly feels more comfortable there._

_He doesn't mind sunlight, quite the opposite in fact, you'd think him a cat the way he is sunbathing outside. But inside, lights put him on edge. Just what happened to a child to be comforted by darkness?_

_He is finally exploring his environment by himself. Still cautiously and with hesitance at times, but thankfully his interest in the world around him has not been squashed there in that awful facility. It takes time, but he is learning. All the things he has missed. Maybe we really can send him to pre-school next year. He should get in contact with other children. Until then he is roaming the farm. Having little adventures, he even has started to tell me about. Big A is keeping an eye on him. They play hide and seek. I don't like it, since it's not just the innocent child game, but A says we have to prepare, in case they find us out here._

Margie stopped writing. Getting up, taking a peek and closing the door as quietly as possible again. Adam was asleep. Looking peaceful, huddled into the blanket as he was. Almost like a normal child.

Here outside of the room she allowed her tears to flow, here were he wasn't able to see her, where it wouldn't confuse or frighten him. The one time she hadn't been able to hold them back, his reaction had made it even worse. That terrified look. She didn't know what has been done to him at that evil place, but this reaction to tears-, as if he expected her to die right there.

They had known it wasn't going to be easy, when Michelle appeared at their doorstep, the little boy on her arm, wrapped into a blanket. The smell of fire still clinging to them. But it going to be this difficult, she hadn't expected.

Nor had Arthur, he hadn't known, despite working there too. He hadn't known. Michelle had told them a bit, but it was obvious she neither knew much about what had been done to Adam.

Not even a name. Just a code number.

The way the boy had stared at her when she asked him, if he was hungry, like not being used to be heard. But he was able to talk. Quietly, more or less like whispering to himself, the word pool rather simple, but they were able to communicate.

Yet what did she expect from such a small child. To explain why he was that afraid of ceiling lights? Where that weirdly expectant and uneasy look did come from, he always wore when one of them entered his room? What was he waiting for? And why did it seem to unnerve him that, what ever it was, did not happen?

 

Margaret was crying again, not in front of the boy at least this time.

If he only had known. Good god. But he had worked at the gates, rarely in the entrance hall. He hadn't known about what had been going on inside the other buildings.

The little body, the thin arms, legs, torso, covered with scars. From little cuts. Scalpels. Needles. The boy was not exactly unhealthy, but he can't have had much room to move. Not used to walk more than a few steps. This paleness, result of the experiments or had he really never been out in the sun?

They would keep the little one safe. Away from those-, _people_.

First of all, relocating to another area. Somewhere north preferably.

Fire seemed to have an oddly soothing effect on the boy, so somewhere, where lighting one wouldn't be too unusual and uncomfortable during this season.

Now, somewhere remote until they gotten used to each other or better an urban area, where doctors and medicine were within easy reach just in case. Though contact to strangers would always be a risk from now on.

The old cabin in Montana? A good starting point. He'd have to get in contact with the old team. Margie would not be happy, but it paid good, and he really liked it. They'd need money now more than ever and the help to hide them and the boy. They'd need papers, a name. A new beginning.

 

“Under what name shall I create the papers?” Mike 'Fingers' had asked after they had discussed the best way forward. A forged adoption just in case. Avoiding some of the usual questions from the start, some odd behaviour would be more expected like this too, a different age to throw _them_ off track.  

They still didn't know who would be trying to get the boy back, but the fact alone, the old team hadn't been able to find out who really had run 'White Helix Laboratories' was warning enough. That those were no ordinary criminals, that whatever was behind those damned experiments was big.

“Ace? I need a name.” First things first!

“What do you think of Adam?” One of his grandfathers had had that name and it would be following the the family tradition of all the sons' names starting with an A.

“Could be worse.” His friend grinned.

Adam.

Adam Jensen.

A good name to start a new life.

 

The decision for the cabin far way out from any other settlement had been wise. Giving the boy time to adapt. Them. Michelle had warned them, but they hadn't expected this sensitivity. Adam already was overwhelmed by the new clothes he wore, the colours all around him. The simple breakfast, pancakes with blueberries.

What long had become background noises for them, seemed to be a whole new cacophony of impressions for him. The little one was able to talk, but not to express himself. Not used to being talked to. Not used to any attention or more probably, no positive one.

Slowly they learned what would make Adam shut down, to sort of freeze, become oddly still while being boneless at the same time, his eyes getting that awful vacant look. A living puppet.

Babies crying and screaming.

The smell of hospital cleaning agents.

That one particular lullaby.

White clothes or bed sheets.

Bright ceiling lights. Bright empty rooms

 

But there also things that soothed him.

Warmth, from a fire or from the sun. For hours the boy would sit at the window, watching squirrels fight over nuts, Arthur placed on a tree stump near the house. Listening to birds singing in the morning. Their voices. No matter what they were talking about or telling.

They hadn't many books for children there, not many books at all, but it didn't matter. Right now Adam had curled himself into a blanket on the couch, relaxed. Listening to Arthur sitting nearby but not too close. Reading aloud from 'Flora of the Great Plains', almost feeling like a documentary speaker. For his own sanity, he alternated with 'Our star system.', 'Star Trek and reality.' and now and then an old history book. Adam didn't seem to mind, the rumbling cadence of his voice apparently being more important than the contents.

 

It was getting better.

She had had to get rid of all the white sheets and tableware, and paint the rooms anew, but it had helped a great deal. The colour hadn't mattered to Adam, as long it wasn't white.

She thanked god every morning, that _they_ hadn't been able to completely kill off that curiosity, that shone in the little one's eyes more and more often. Now that he slowly grew courage. Started to speak without being asked, to explore his environment on his own. To take initiative rather than waiting for being told what to do.

Too many people around him were a problem. Made Adam uncomfortable, always brought him close to retreat into himself in the blink of an eye. Before taking him with her for shopping groceries, she never had realised how fast strangers were ready to come close to other people

An old lady, she surely had had no ill intentions, but had invaded Adam's personal space before Margie had been able to stop her. That witch then having the nerve to judge him for his negative reaction, and her, when she desperately tried to draw him out of this awful stillness again.

Had it been too early?

No, waiting too long might have made this even worse and up till this incident, Adam had eyed everything new to him out there with great curiosity. Had always asked questions on the way back. Had enjoyed himself, hadn't he?

Finding him waiting by the car the next time she is going into town-, if only she could hug him, to show him how proud she is, how incredibly relieved. But physical contact still was out of the question. So she smiles broadly. It confuses him, until she explains, she is happy, because it's such a nice day, because he is accompanying her. Because the first signs of spring begin to show.

In response there is a new expression from him. Very small and barely visible, but it is a smile she decides.

Adam smiling.

It really is a wonderful day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no continuous story here, more a collection of ideas fleshed out. What it was like to be little Adam or to watch him discover another world, different and far away from experiments and laboratories. 
> 
> As for Arthur Jensen, can't remember where it came from, but in the beginning I thought he worked as sort of a mercenary, special forces soldier.  
> The information Marvin Quinn collected about Jensen, then said he was doing security at White Helix. Resulting in having temporarily retired from black ops in my head.  
> Since the little family managed to keep Adam safe after all. There must have been some experience and help doing that hide and vanishing act, being on the run.


	3. A new addition to the class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A teacher getting a new pupil into his class.

Dean Torres, teacher for English, Math and Physic at a small school in a small town in the Midwest, did not like getting new pupils added to his class during an ongoing school year. Oh, of course he knew, there were reasons to move around and change schools, divorces, new jobs and all that. Still didn't change the fact, he did not like getting new additions to his classes under the year.  
It always caused unrest.  
Depending on the person in question, there might be quite a ruckus for the rest of the year, or it may go more smoothly and only takes a few weeks, until the class was back to where he wanted them. Disciplined, paying attention and, he knew he was stretching his expectations a bit there, eager to learn.  
So he wasn't happy as the head office secretary turned up in his classroom with a new boy in tow.  
A lean teenager of supposedly 12 years.  
Shy was the first impression, with how the dark haired boy tried to stay in the background. How the class staring at him seemed to make him more uncomfortable, than most kids Mr Torres had seen standing in that place. Yet this sort of shyness was treacherous in his experience, more than once, those playing quiet first, had become the bane of his classes later. 

Adam Jensen.  
The grades from previous schools a bit above average, that was at least something to look forward to.  
Given those had really been earned and not handed out like candy, like some schools and teachers did these days. Especially with the verbal evaluation being pretty vague.  
That might be a plus for maybe really being a quiet one.  
One of those kids lots of teachers tended to oversee in the mix of the class, to forget until they have to write something up about them at the end of the year. Those typical phrases, like 'always was helpful', 'dependable with his homework'. Those stupid things that should be the rule and not something worth mentioning in these reports.  
Every child Mr Torres had taught over the years, was individual, was in it's own way setting itself apart from the others. Was good at something.  
It was a question of pride for him to find out the strength, if not school related, maybe it was a special interest, a talent or a hobby. There always was something positive to say, even about the worst of them.  
But for now he would have to make sure the new boy wasn't disrupting the routine too much.  
Mhmm, pairing him up with someone or better a single desk?  
Single, he decided, until he'd know what sort of a person Adam really was. 

 

The grades seemed to have been earned. And the boy really was a quiet one, rarely pointing up on his own, but nonetheless paying attention. Mr Torres hadn't managed to catch him unaware so far. Always alert and being able to give a satisfactory answer, even when Adam had that weird absent look on him. 

Mr Torres did not remember when the thought had come up the first time. That the Jensen boy was a behaving a little too odd.  
Shyness was one thing, but Adam pretty much avoided to draw any of his classmates' or other people's attention. The teacher had tried to get some information out of him, what he liked or disliked. Not much really tangible there. It all had sounded very much like prepared and memorised answers.  
Having a dog, riding his bike, being outside. Too cliché in times of smartphones, Xboxes, video games and all that.  
Then there was the issue with the close contact. Granted, teenagers starting to get used to their body changing into an adult, tended to react weirdly at times. But this had been different. A normal reaction would have been to shy away or to lash out maybe, not freezing up.  
He was at home in his kitchen, preparing dinner for his family, as the radio reported of another sad child abuse story ending in death, the same old unfortunately happening too often. The community in shock, 'how did this happen in our neighbourhood' outcries, yet no one knowing anything, no one having seen any signs until it had been too late.  
He almost cuts his thumb as he realises, what might foster in their little town here too, under his very own eyes.  
Kids especially boys often did things that might leave them with bruises, but Adam didn't seem the type for overconfidence, nor one who was solving trouble with his fists. More like hesitant and cautious. But where did the bruise at his left wrist come from then?  
And it hadn't been the first one the teacher had seen on him.  
Why did he wear long sleeved shirts even in the hot summer they had this year?

Regularly there were invitations to the parents, for talking about the children's progress or troubles. Only Adam's father showed up, excusing his wife for being sick. Another alarming sign or was he biased, because as a pacifist, he never really got along well with these kind of military types Arthur Jensen undoubtedly was?  
Yet the man had been polite and appropriately interested in the matters of Adams grades and achievements at school. A normal mix of both pride and concern. Calmly he had heard Mr Torres out and had asked a few questions that showed, he was taking the matters seriously.  
Nothing out of the ordinary except for an uneasy feeling being left behind. That the man had been on guard, cautious, maybe even suspicious.  
He had talked to Adam again too, but learning very little there. The bruises supposedly being results from some sort of training. When he had told the boy, his door always was open if he needed help or someone to talk to, that only had earned Mr Torres a weird expression.  
Confused, but also afraid, he thought. Of what though?

Arthur knew what the man thought, what suspicions he had. They had hung in the air quite clearly.  
They usually were careful, but sometimes bruises were inevitable.  
This sort of attention was dangerous for them, yet at the same time he had been glad to have met Mr Torres, respected the man. For paying attention, for not overlooking Adam. Even if misguided in this case, it was good to know someone looked out, noticed, cared. It was one of the boy's most favourite teachers, the way he almost excitedly told about the classes. Arthur wished he would have been able to tell the man the truth. But it was not possible, too dangerous.  
Margie and him had discussed the long sleeved shirts, but had come to the conclusions, telling people about sensitive skin was easier than to have to explain the scars. Small cuts, from scalpels, little points, visible traces of too many needles breaking too young skin. There was no good explanation for a 12 year old having those in these numbers. None that wouldn't risk his safety.  
Mr Torres had not been the only reason why they moved on, there had been other warning signs, of those chasing them being too close on their heels again.  
Somewhere north this time, where long sleeves were not this unusual. Maybe close to the Canadian border, just in case?  
Arthur threw a glance into the back mirror of the car they had exchanged with a friend waiting for them at a little motel. The sleeping forms of Adam and Margie huddled together on the back seat.  
Sleep in peace, tomorrow we will find a new home.

 

Mr Torres didn't like getting new pupils under the year, but loosing one like this? It gnawed at him.  
That he had been too careful, that he directly should have alerted someone of his suspicions, the authorities, even if false accusations could be as destructive as the gruesome truth.  
But now they were gone.  
Adam and his parents. Leaving pretty much overnight.  
He had taken up the habit to wander, to take a walk in the evenings, to think. To try to get over what he had done wrong, that he too hadn't reacted before it was too late.  
One day, coming across a group of teenagers running and doing warm up in the autumn coloured park, under the supervision of two trainers. Some martial arts it looks like, it had become a renewed trend with the recent blockbusters in the cinemas. Pausing on a bench he watches them without really seeing them.  
“Calvin, get up, a few small bruises aren't the end of the world.” gets his attention though.  
Many of them have bluish and purple patches of skin, near their wrists, up to the elbow. Those don't look that different from what he had seen on Adam. 

It had lessened that guilty feeling, but really getting over the events, Mr Torres only managed after the headmaster called him into his office some weeks later. Waiting there with two men in dark suits, with questions about a pupil of him.  
Former pupil.  
Adam Jensen.  
The parents being sought, for criminal activities, yet he wasn't told any details. But this clearly wasn't about what he had feared and suspected.  
There wasn't much he was able to share with them, wondering why they asked about Adam and not the parents and supposed criminals.  
Yes, a rather quiet boy. Met the father once, school stuff, grades and that. Mother was-  
No, knowing of no particular interests of Adam. Was just an average boy, not catching much attention.  
Well, what do you expect, there are 29 other children in class, too. That mostly are causing more fuss or trouble, than a quiet one with sufficient grades and acceptable attention during lessons.  
Names of friends? No, didn't see him making any in class.  
Outside my classroom? Maybe, how would I know after all. Though doubt it. Was polite and friendly when being addressed, but otherwise pretty shy, not actively seeking contact with others  
No, the boy hasn't told anything about where they were headed, actually didn't know about the move to elsewhere until the secretary informed me. Doesn't the school have the new address? 

Mr Torres did not know much about Adam and his parents, but what little there was, he didn't share with those men.  
It's just a feeling while he is there in that office. Driving home later, he can't for the life of it remember what agency those men had been from. What jurisdiction they had called.  
He didn't know where the Jensens had gone. But secretly he apologised to Mr Jensen and wished them luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never had a teacher named Torres, but I had one that indeed was a bit, let's call it strange in how he saw us pupils, at least I thought so at that time ;-)  
> Quite pedantic and demanding too, but as long as some basic rules were followed, one of the best teachers I ever had. Realising this only later though, after I had a more broadened experience of what does make a good teacher.  
> When meeting him again a while ago, years after finishing school, he actually told me about this 'everyone has something positive to him' method of his. Also generally trying not to take bad behaviour in class too personally. Being some of those odd teachers, he had to deal with quite a lot purposely provocative behaviour, but he never let himself get baited.  
> I know other teachers that retired with the utter relief of never having to deal with any pupil again, no matter if current or former, but this man was really interested and happy to learn, where life had led the kids he had taught. Even fondly remembering those incidents and pranks from over the years, despite not all of them really being that nice.  
> So since teaching pubescent teenagers pretty sure is taxing very often, this is a little tribute there, to all teachers who put up with that hormone induced crap that we did back then. And any new generation is doing again.  
> So thank you to all the teachers out there, for not giving up on us, for not loosing patience and the belief that we too will become someone who'll make his or her way in life, even if we are stupid brats at the moment.
> 
> For the reaction to the bruises, I have a friend doing ken-do as a hobby, getting her elbow hit green and blue sometimes because beginners have bad aim and miss the forearm protector at times. More than once, she really had a teacher taking her to the side asking if everything okay at home, if there was something she needed to talk about.


	4. A little boy's best friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something short this time, how does a maybe 6 year old Adam react to a small furry creature wanting to get close?

He doesn't know what to do with the animal. It's not that its closeness makes him uncomfortable, it seems to be excited, but he really doesn't know what to do. What those sounds mean, that rolling around, the wagging of the tail.

The hair, no, it's called _fur_ , feels-, smooth. Soft. Warm. Something is pulsing there, underneath, making him withdraw his hand quickly before the dog would be hurt. Since after touch, hurt would follow, always had.

But Dad also had explained to him, carefully touching the dog, petting it lightly would not hurt it. That the animal would like it even, he'd know it, when it would make these weird sounds, would try to get closer. Relax its head onto his lap. The dog looks at him sort of-, _sad?_

Mum and Dad touching him was not-, they were-, it usually did not hurt. Maybe-

Something wet at his hand is startling him. A cool snout sniffing him, the tongue lapping his fingers feels-, weird. But good weird. _Tickling,_ that's the word. The dog then is trying to dive its head under his hand. Looking at him like this again? Pleading? Those sounds, whining yet not-, not crying.

It _wanted_ to be touched?

 

Behind the door, spying on the boy, Arthur lets out a deep breath as little Adam has no choice than to indulge the stubborn cuddly dog. After all, Maximus always was quite resolute in demanding affection and get his share of petting.

Thank goodness, dogs being little boys' best friends still was true. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My ideas of little Adam's life got neglected a bit since I started to put some ideas about my Adam as an adult into words (no way close to start posting those yet), but there are still some half done chapters of the childhood too, that I intend to polish and get them posted here, as far as free time and inspiration allow.


End file.
